Mad Preoccupation
by SecretWindow
Summary: When the psychosomatic tremble in John's left hand returns Sherlock is determined to find out why. There may be something more sinister that Sherlock has disregarded in his mad preoccupation with John. Will be Johnlock, perhaps some mystrade.
1. Chapter 1

Mad Preoccupation

**Chapter 1**

Sherlock frowned very slightly, anything more and John might notice. This particular frown could easily be over a piece of music giving him a particularly hard time, or a recently remembered case that hadn't gone as smoothly as expected. In all actuality this small quirk of his lip downwards was because the tremor in his John's left hand had made an unexpected return.

He drew the bow carefully over the strings of his near priceless violin as he watched the doctor bustle about their small, shared kitchen and remembered the first time since he thought the psychosomatic issue had been resolved that it had made a reappearance.

John had been writing his usual post-case blog entry and Sherlock, had caught sight of a few things that were odd. John was writing about him, his appearance, and he had used the phrase 'eyes like granite'. This was odd because the color of Sherlock's eyes changed regularly, as John well knew if he was the least bit observant. Sherlock leaned over the back of the chair, his face suddenly inches from John's and pointed at the words. "Inaccurate John, my eyes are rarely the same color for more than a moment in the sun, the reflection of light changes the hue." He had asserted flatly.

John had immediately jumped and whipped his head around to look at Sherlock incredulously. "Artistic license Sherlock. It's my writing." He muttered, trying to lean away from the slender man invading his personal space. Sherlock had thought that this behavior was strange considering the fact that he always invaded John's space, almost on a daily basis. In the interest of science Sherlock had thought it prudent to place his hand on John's shoulder and that was when his eyes caught the slight trembling of those confidant hands.

John had looked distinctly embarrassed and ducked the hand under the table, steadying it with the right one. Sherlock had relented to digest the new information and study John from a far. He had sprawled out on the couch, long legs draping over the armrest and thought about what could have triggered this relapse. He came up with far too many variables and decided that he would simply have to systematically remove each variable until there was only one left, or John cracked under the stress of having the whole of Sherlock Holmes' attention and told his flatmate what was wrong.

This task was proving increasingly difficult due to the fact that the tremor didn't make the slightest sense. It would show up at the strangest times and not show hide nor hair when Sherlock tried to coax it out of him. Sherlock had gone into John's room at two thirty six in the morning and discharged a firearm into the wall three times, raising an eyebrow when John leapt out of bed but his hand remained frustratingly still, thus stress, danger, and fear were ruled out as possible causes.

The next day Sherlock left a human head on the dining room table and proceeded to pluck every hair off of the scalp muttering about experiments and how he was studying the postmortem removal of hair's effect on the follicles. John had seemed disgusted and properly irritated and yet still the hand had not moved ruling out disgust, irritation, and frustration. Later that evening, Sherlock found to his frustration, that as they sat on the couch watching some terrible show on the telly that night that John's hand was shaking again despite the lack of stimuli. The show they were watching wasn't even that engrossing.

Which lead to Sherlock harping away on his violin drowning out the noise of the busy world outside his head as he ruminated on the issue. With a final frustrated huff Sherlock dropped the instrument in his usual chair and went to stand unnervingly close to John in order to gain his attention. The doctor of course knew that Sherlock was there, his time as a soldier had taught him to at least be that aware, it might not be as impressive as Sherlock's perceptive abilities but it was something.

John turned and realized that he had made a slight miscalculation about how very close Sherlock was. At the moment the lanky detective was reaching towards the counter tops on either side of him, effectively trapping him between Sherlock's arms and right in the path of that piercing gaze.

"Tell me John, why has your left hand been trembling again? I thought we had solved that." The man demanded coldly, his eyes searching that face for tells, micro-expressions that might indicate lies. John locked eyes with that intelligent gaze for a moment before bashfully looking away and pulling his already trembling hand behind his back, effectively sandwiching it between his lower back and the counter. Sherlock flicked his gaze toward the movement, clearly frustrated and confused.

"Sherlock I'd like to go... get some air now." He stuttered, far too close to the detective for his own good. "No, not until you a answer me." Sherlock quipped self righteously, watching John's face still, chasing any sign of emotion. "Sherlock Holmes move now." John reiterated, standing straight, prepared to move the man physically if necessary. "No..." The word had hardly left his mouth when his sweet, emotional, John Watson kicked his feet out from under him and simultaneously caught his hands as he fell, twisting Sherlock around until he was lying on his stomach on the ground with his hands caught behind his back in John's strong grip.

As quickly as they were there the hands were gone and John was slamming the door behind him. Sherlock slowly pulled himself into a sitting position, mind racing with possibilities. Clearly in his next endeavor he needed to factor in that John was stronger than him physically.

John steamed as he walked to the park, Sherlock was certainly taking liberties these days. It was terrifyingly close to how he acted when he had caught a particularly interesting case that he could not let go. If Sherlock knew, if he found out... John had no idea how that conversation would go, or the repercussions. 'Oh yes mate, I'm actually intensely attracted to you and my hand shakes when you get near me, would you like a nice cuppa?' John snorted. Right, the asexual jerk that was currently occupying the flat would probably mutter some quip about sentiment being silly and for ordinary people and promptly kick him out.

John growled, this was absolutely ridiculous. Sherlock was his friend, his flatmate, nothing more and it was counterproductive to his state of mind to entertain any thoughts that might make it feel otherwise. Picturing him naked was at the top of the list of 'thoughts that make it feel otherwise' and it would eventually get him caught if his bloody hand didn't do the job first.

The soldier squared his shoulders, turning on his heel, and headed back toward 221B Baker street. He would get this madness under control. The friendship that he shared with the eccentric man was just that, a friendship and it was far too valuable to ruin with the feelings running through his brain.

John crept up the stairs, hoping that Sherlock had finally gone to sleep, not that there was much hope of that considering the man's sleep schedule, or lack thereof. Sherlock was still sitting where John had lain him down 'platonic friendship John, you didn't lay him down that way' fingers resting lightly against his lips as he apparently thought something through. He didn't glance up when John entered the room, or when he, attempting to be quiet shuffled through to the stairs, pausing on his way up. John turned his head slightly towards the brooding man on the floor.

"Sherlock, let it go mate, it's nothing. I'm not upset. Sorry I... err... you know." He muttered, waving his hand in the direction of the counter. Sherlock grunted in response, not looking up and John knew that the man would never let it go. Not until he knew. John frowned and headed up the stairs, exhausted from the stress of hiding his current condition.

Just as John settled into bed he heard Sherlock begin messing about on the violin again and chuckled quietly. Some things would just never change. And so John slept and Sherlock thought. The mad genius downstairs chasing his thoughts in circles trying to pinpoint the change in his friend's behavior and seeming mental injury.

John woke groggily to a surprising silence pervading the flat. Typically Sherlock's noisy nature would not allow for this. The ex-military man drug himself out of the bed and shuffled down the stairs to meet a strange sight. Sherlock was making tea, seemingly confused about how to proceed as he stared at the boiling water and the large array of tea containers before him. John cracked a small smile and walked over to help. He plucked one of his favorites and another that Sherlock seemed to drink more often when John made it and shooed the lanky man into a chair.

This was clearly his attempt to apologize, ill-equipped to actually do it though he was, John found the effort nothing short of adorable before shaking his head and beginning his mantra for today. 'Platonic friends. Platonic friends. Platonic friends John. Nothing more'.

Sherlock was looking at him. Oh right, he was making tea. A small flush spread across his cheeks at being caught and he fumbled to retrieve the milk and sugar. Soon enough though he had both cups set at the table and Sherlock claimed his with some relief that he wouldn't have to drink his own concoction.

"What's on the agenda for today Sherlock?" John asked tentatively. Apparently this was the correct query because Sherlock broke into one of those sneaky smirks that belied the happiness beneath and launched into an explanation of a case that Lestrade had called him about at some obscene time of the morning while John was sleeping.

Sherlock was up and pacing, waiting for John to shrug into his coat and as soon as the smaller man had appropriately secured all of his necessary items it was off they went, John trailing faithfully behind that swishing coat as he seemingly always would.

As the two men stepped out of the black cab, a mode of transportation that Sherlock simply would not give up, they were immediately confronted with what was obviously the crime scene, swarming with uniformed officers, surprisingly enough right in front of the Yard. It was a disorganized mess and nobody seemed to know exactly how to proceed. Sherlock was unable to keep a pleased grin from his face as he observed the officers confusion. He seemed to revel in it for a moment before stepping up commandingly and nudging that rat faced excuse for a crime scene investigator out of the way.

Anderson grimaced and started in with the taunts, "Ah, freak, I see you've brought your sniffer dog along again. Careful, one might begin to wonder exactly how close you two are." He sneered, eyes jumping from Sherlock to John as they pushed their way through the obnoxious and steadily growing crowd to begin the examination.

Sherlock gleefully stopped and began quipping about the supposedly obvious relationship between  
Detective Donavan and the married Anderson. "Oh Anderson, you may want to lay off the bottle, it seems that Donavan is a little disappointed with your performance... or rather lack there of based on the looks she keeps shooting you and the serious hangover face you're sporting. TELL ME ANDERSON HAVE YOU HEARD THE PHENOMENON CALLED WHISKEY DIC..." Sherlock had begun shouting enjoying the look on Anderson's miserable looking face as his headache grew worse and the panic as he realized what Sherlock intended to shout.

"Sherlock, might we continue?" John cut in cleanly over the shouting, effectively stopping the words from coming out of the consulting detective's mouth. Sherlock pouted for a moment, looking thoroughly put out before proceeding to the area quartered off by the yellow tape.

Carefully ducking under the police tape and between the crowd control officers John knelt next to the deceased, looking over the body and dictating aloud. "White male, mid to late thirties, close cropped blond hair, military tattoo on the left forearm. Why is he naked though?" He muttered to himself. He searched the body for a cause of death, grunting with effort as he lifted the man's torso into a sitting position and ran a gloved hand along his back, searching for any kind of marks or anomalies that might hint at a cause of death. His fingers ran across two burn marks the size of thumb tacks on the back of the neck and he recognized that the COD was likely electrocution due to a particularly large surge of electricity so very near the brain stem. It would leave no other outward effects than the two points of connection and if the killer hadn't used such an excessive voltage there might not even have been the burn marks.

"Cause of death seems to be severe brain trauma. Most likely a massive electric shock of some sort." John rattled off, laying the man back down and straightening up to get Sherlock's assessment of the situation. The tall detective was currently standing with his back to the crowd, staring intently at the whole picture, the naked dead man leaned up against the outside wall of the Yard and the spectacle that it was creating. Those eyes were darting quickly back and forth most likely cataloging thousands of tiny details which were seemingly irrelevant to anyone who wasn't Sherlock Holmes.

John came to the realization that his hand was trembling again and held it still with his right hand, both clasped in front of him in hopes that Sherlock would be distracted with the crime scene and not see the flush that flooded his face and the fact that he was gripping his hand as though it had done him a personal disservice. Sherlock's glance sideways told John that this was not missed and he carefully knelt to prod the body. After about five minutes Sherlock stood and seemed ready to declare his conclusions.

"His name is Martin Hewitt according to the engraving on his wedding ring. He was married, young wife and possibly one child. Military, I'd say infantry judging by the rifle burns. Closet homosexual and serial cheater." Sherlock rattled off gleefully.

For a moment silence reigned, then John's face lost all color. In place of his usual expressions of amazement and awe he adopted a stony countenance. "Sherlock. This man served with me in Afghanistan. I should have recognized him but he wasn't in my unit. I knew Martin Hewitt." He delivered calmly. Sherlock's eyes widened slightly and he quickly assessed John's reaction before asking that question.

"Alright?" It came out a little more emphatic than he had intended but he went with it and raised his eyebrows as John pulled on his military training and relaxed his features, disconnecting the man he knew from the body on the ground.

"Yes. Where to now?" John asked tersely. "To Baker street obviously, I know who the victim is but I've got to think for a bit on the perpetrator." Sherlock said as he took John by the shoulders and shuffled him into the cab waiting for them.

"Lestrade, text me with any developments." He tossed over his shoulder. The Detective Inspector grumbled something angrily and waved them off as Sherlock slid into the cab next to John who was sitting completely straight looking unseeingly forward with his hands tensely folded in his lap.

The two men rode in silence back to the house where for once Sherlock paid and John walked mechanically into the house, making a cup of tea and slumping into one of the well worn kitchen chairs. A few moments later Sherlock came bounding up the stairs, throwing the door open and whipping off his coat as per usual.

John stared into his tea unseeingly as his mind worked through what he had seen today. Hewitt had been a good soldier as far as John had known, he had always been there when he was needed and if John's spotty memory of Afghanistan stood he had not been squeamish about being in the infirmary when he was assigned there.

So why him? Sherlock claimed that he was an accomplished philanderer and a closet homosexual and as much as John knew that Sherlock was correct nine times out of ten he found it difficult to believe. The man he had known was spoken well of by his unit and performed his duties with precision.

"Sherlock, are you sure?" He asked softly, his eyes closed, not wanting to see the look on his flatmate's face as he doubted his deductions.

"Yes John. I'm sure." He muttered in return, knowing exactly what John was questioning and worrying about John's unusual reaction to this man.

"Alright then. Let me know what's next." John said, resigned. The smaller man stood and set his untouched tea on the table, setting his head in his hands. Sherlock looked at him strangely for a moment and proceeded to pull his feet up onto the couch, setting his fingers against his lips in his typical thinking pose.

After nearly an hour of silence John moved to his armchair and plucked a novel from the side table, cozying up to wait for Sherlock's silence to break. Sherlock remained in the same position for nearly three hours and John was thoroughly engrossed in his book by the time the lanky man leapt to his feet and began digging through the copious amounts of papers and books on the desk in front of the window.

"John, where has my roster gone?" He questioned frantically digging for said item.

"Sorry, what roster?" John replied, tiredly setting his book face down to preserve his page.

"Active and recently retired military, come on John, I asked you for it weeks ago when we were investigating that case with the woman you know, the woman with the military boyfriend." Sherlock asserted irritably.

"Oh, possibly under that stack just there." John replied, pointing at a sloppy stack of papers with a laminated report near the bottom. Sherlock yanked it out with a flourish, disregarding the flurry of papers that ensued and looked at it as though it held the secrets he sought.

Sherlock scanned the roster, standing stock still for a moment and until John thought he might be in for another hour of silence before shouting excitedly.

"John we have a pattern." He proclaimed as he thrust the thick bound papers into John's face, fairly bouncing with excitement. John squinted at the papers for a moment before deciding that they held something significant only to Sherlock and shaking his head in defeat and handing the papers back to the curly haired man bouncing on the balls of his feet like a child about to receive a sweet.

"Sherlock I don't see it. You'll have to explain." He said tiredly rubbing his eyes.

"They were all military men John, in the past year there have been exactly four murders of this nature, M.O. was different of course but this makes number five giving us a pattern, military men, and a serial killer. John a serial killer! We've got one!" He exclaimed grinning like a mad man.

John stared at him blankly for a moment. "Hurray." He uttered sarcastically. It was lost on the man in front of him as he fervently looked through the roster again, trying to see if he had missed something which he hadn't of course but it was still worth a look, or so he said.

John glanced at the clock which read a little after two am and realized that he had been up all night with Sherlock, entranced by the man even as he sat brooding. He frowned, realizing that if he didn't sleep now he wouldn't get the chance to later and despite the fact that Sherlock's body seemed to run on pure adrenaline and nothing else he would regret it if he didn't at least get some sleep.

"Right then, wake me when you've got a course of action." He quipped as he heaved himself out of the armchair and stumbled sleepily to his room. John's bed was a warm and comfortable as it ever was and soon enough he was resting fitfully, hoping somewhere in the back of his mind that Sherlock would not awaken him with gunshots this time.

Sherlock was pacing a hole in the floor as his mind attempted to puzzle out two mysteries at once. One being the murder at hand and the fact that he had a solid lead. Two being what he had begun to refer to in his head as the 'John problem' in reference to his friend's seemingly nonsensical tremor.

The first was almost easy as compared to the second. Clearly the killer had a grudge against military men fresh out of the service. Possibly he could use John as bait to draw them out and capture them in the act. Not that he would actually let his blogger be hurt but it was a solid enough plan and with the boys at the yard to back him up John's safety would never be in any danger.

The second was a bit more complicated. Today at the crime scene he had seen out of the corner of his eye that John's hand had begun to tremble as he worked out his ideas about the crime scene. So it seemed that the psychosomatic shake had something to do with Sherlock himself. This was worrisome because he couldn't have John faltering in their line of business and in their line of business they were nearly always together.

Sherlock frowned, flopping onto the couch and drawing his feet up in front of him. This was troubling. He didn't _want_ John to be nervous around him. They were friends weren't they? Why was he so upset about this? He made plenty of people nervous, he had even been told to his face that his countenance and his intense stare were unsettling but John had never been anything but mildly amused and sometimes slightly irritated with his scrutiny.

So why now? Why was John so very flustered by his presence? Slowly an idea began to take shape. It was... odd. John couldn't actually... could he? Slowly a wicked grin spread across Sherlock's face, he could have some fun with this. It might be amusing

Upstairs John jumped into wakefulness as a loud peal of laughter broke the silence of 221B Baker St. With a feeling of dread John turned over and went back to sleep hoping that Sherlock had not irreparably damaged any of his favorite items in the house.

Notes:

As a side note, to anyone who read this before I realized that I had formatting issues, I'm very sorry that you had to see that garbled mess. This is the intended content. Thank you for your understanding.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

When John awoke the next morning he shuffled down the stairs, scrubbing at his eyes impatiently trying to clear the sleep and thus he didn't even register that his mad flatmate had lain himself across the bottom step and fallen asleep, presumably waiting not so patiently for John to wake up.

John's foot caught in Sherlock's robe and he stumbled for a moment and promptly fell directly on top of the bony man blocking the way to his morning cuppa. With a strangled shout they both tumbled off of the stairs and landed in a heap on the floor. As John was nursing the growing lump on his head and trying to get rid of the tingling in his elbow he glanced up and was looking into Sherlock's sleepy glare.

"Really John if you wanted me to wake up there are far more pleasant ways to achieve that." He groused unhappily, extricating himself and his copious amounts of dressing gown from under the smaller man.

Sherlock stood straightening his rumpled clothes and thrust a hand down at John who took it, rubbing the back of his head.

"I wasn't the one sleeping on the stairs." John snapped, eager for the boost of caffeine offered by his morning tea. With a grunt John heaved himself to a standing position and turned toward the kitchen but Sherlock didn't release his hand immediately, he let his fingers trail along John's wrist and fingers, prolonging the contact just enough to make John's breath hitch in his chest and start his left hand at it again. John jerked his right hand out of Sherlock's grasp and shuffled to the kitchen, missing the look of smug joy on Sherlock's face.

Preparing the tea helped to calm his nerves and lower his heart rate which was a good thing because he was pretty sure he might have a heart attack if Sherlock pulled something like that again. Could he possibly know? No. John had been very discreet, he hadn't even been staring. Right so he was just being usual Sherlock weird. That was slightly comforting.

John added the milk and sugar to his tea, leaving Sherlock's black and walking slowly to the living room where the man in question was pouring over some document or another and John bluntly plopped the cup directly on top of it. Maybe it was a little bit of retribution on his part for the stunt that he had pulled earlier but Sherlock didn't necessarily need to know that.

John eased into his armchair and closed his eyes, trying to ease his way into wakefulness gently, a rare opportunity when one lived with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock looked up, a dark expression on his face as he realized that they would need to speak to a man who was distasteful at the least in Sherlock's book.

"John, we need to speak with Sebastian Wilkes." He snapped, running a hand through his unkempt hair with a frustrated huff. This was, as John might put it, a bit not good. John's face crumpled into an expression of barely restrained disgust and he snorted.

"That tosser? What could he possibly say that we might need?" John asked unhappily. Sherlock knew of his immediate and intense dislike of the overly showy and downright irritating man who seemed to think that he knew Sherlock better than John because they had gone to school together.

"The case John, dead military man, there are only a few people with enough money and power to get away with something like this without the government coming down hard on them. Sebastian Wilkes is the first, there are four more one of which includes Mycroft which, despite his less than savory methods, I think that we can rule out. We start with Wilkes because he has a personal grudge against our armed forces." Sherlock explained in quick, clipped tones, bustling about as he got ready to leave.

"Now go John, get dressed, the case is on." He shooed the doctor out of the living room and away from his quickly cooling tea, all the while eying his pajamas with disdain.

John grumpily mounted the stairs and dressed as quickly as could be managed, barreling down the stairs to meet Sherlock at the door as they both paused to shrug into their respective coats. Sherlock oddly enough held up John's and insisted on helping him into it despite John's perfectly able bodied status.

John gave Sherlock's back a strange look as he struggled to keep up with his flatmate's long strides. Sherlock glanced back at him and tossed up a hand to stop a cab, ushering the shorter man into the seat impatiently and sliding in beside him. John was trying not to look at the man as though he had grown another head but it was increasingly difficult when he was acting so very strangely.

John had been shooting him sideways glances every few moments and Sherlock was finding it very difficult to concentrate on the case the longer this went on. Was he usually so distant with his doctor that the few small gestures he was making were enough to draw suspicion? Regardless it was time for him to think through the possible motives that Wilkes may have for orchestrating something like this and it was becoming easier and easier to see.

Sherlock pointedly refused to think about their relations at university but added them as a tick on the 'Wilkes did it' side of the board. He could have a grudge against John for what he might perceive as taking his property. Wilkes's face when Sherlock had not shown up alone when he called him for the bank case cemented the fact that he was unhappy with John's presence in Sherlock's life.

Then there was the fact that Wilkes had been dishonorably discharged from the service after he had been accused of using unauthorized methods of interrogation on a civilian while he was deployed.

The military grudge could be the driving force behind this and Sherlock was inclined to turn in this direction rather than assume that John could be the catalyst for the murders.

He glanced to his right, a small smile on his face as he looked at the funny little man for whom he would shield the nastier aspects of their cases, including this if it turned out to be true. But then John didn't really know the significance of Wilkes in Sherlock's life and thus probably wouldn't come to the correct conclusion anyway. No shielding necessary.

The cab pulled up next to the giant glass and steel structure that was the bank in which Sebastian worked and Sherlock took a deep breath, darting out of the cab and rushing through the rotating doors. Moments later he heard John's familiar gait behind him, obviously having paid the cabbie and caught up judging from the slowing of his steps. He was grumbling about great genius gits who can't be bothered with transport.

Sherlock quirked one corner of his mouth, more a smirk than a smile and slowed his stride momentarily until John was exactly one pace behind him as per usual. They ascended the stairs together and as they got closer to their target John's expression got darker and darker. He was really not a fan of this man. Sherlock who relished the opportunity to flaunt his gifts hid them from Wilkes of all people. He tried to act ordinary. It was disconcerting.

The duo paused in front of the door for a moment before Sherlock opened the door gently, rather than flinging it open with his usual gusto, John noted. Wilkes glanced up from his slightly glowing computer screen with that smug, self-important smirk and John's hand clenched into a fist. He ached to wipe the expression off of his face, preferably using what could be described as excessive force.

The detective kept his expression carefully blank, noting John's immediate volatility.

"Sebastian. I've got a few questions for you." Sherlock intoned, his whole person exuding bored confidence. Sebastian stood, fake smile in place and thrust out a hand for a handshake which Sherlock raised an eyebrow at, keeping his own hands firmly in his coat pockets. After a few awkward moments the man let his hand fall to his side and gestured at the chairs opposing the desk. The two pointedly remained standing.

"Of course Sherlock, anything for an old friend." He said cheerily, ending the sentence with an expression that bordered on leering if one squinted and looked sideways at it. John did. He took it for the aggressive move that it was. His barely restrained anger ticked up another notch and he began clenching his jaw to stop from saying something decidedly not good.

"You were in the service were you not? If I remember correctly they paid for your time at uni." Sherlock asked, despite knowing the answers already, testing the waters and seeing if the man would try to lie to them or not. Wilkes shot them that winning fake smile.

"Of course Sherlock, you know that. That is why I was older than most of the boys there. I remember you asking me that when we first met." He replied. Sherlock clenched his jaw for a fraction of a second, flashing back to that doe eyed young man in wonder of the older, seemingly more distinguished man fresh out of doing his duty for Queen and country. After the moment passed he smoothed out his expression and continued.

"What exactly did you do while in the service Sebastian? You see John here has been quite curious and I've been trying to tell him that you were just an average soldier but he disagrees." Sherlock forced the curiosity and admiration into his voice as he asked the question, hoping to goad Wilkes into letting go of the conditions of his discharge. Wilkes fairly swelled with pride, puffing out his chest and smirking something awful.

"Well if you can keep a secret dear Sherlock, I was a member of the United Kingdom Special Operations. I did the nasty nobs that nobody else would. In other words, I did what needed to be done for our dear country." He said, ending the sentence with a hint of bitterness that made John want to laugh and point like a child at the fact that he had given up, with some amount of pride, exactly what they wanted to know. Instead he settled for gazing intently at the middle distance and trying not to listen to the familiar tone of voice with which the two spoke to each other.

John knew his type. He had a few run ins with them during his deployment. They were thugs, muscle designed to make the prisoners of war talk. It was very hush hush and nobody but a few members of the medical staff and the spec ops guys themselves knew exactly what was going on. John's initial assignment was to patch up their handiwork so that they could be sent back over enemy lines in order to avoid any kind of accusations of torture landing on the British government.

After seeing how well John handled that kind of … intensity he had been moved into active battle which, after seeing what these guys left behind, was a bit of a blessing. John calmed his breathing, trying not to slip into a panic attack. Lately he was disturbingly prone to them. They were triggered not by memories of active duty, which dredged up shameful feelings of exhilaration and adrenaline, but of what he had to see while acting as a medical professional. Certain incidents were very... memorable and a few of them were created by men like Sebastian Wilkes.

Sherlock seemed to be wrapping up and John thanked the stars that he hadn't done something stupid like teach the expensively dressed man exactly what a good left hook looked like. Wilkes checked his phone, trying to be subtle about it by keeping it half in his pocket but it was clear that he wanted them gone.

"Right right, now we were just wondering why you got out of that line of work Sebastian, you seemed so happy to be protecting our country that it is odd to me that you would quit early, you were only twenty five when you got out right? In Uni I knew you were a bit older but typically doesn't the military require that complete your tour before paying for your education?" Sherlock probed gently, putting on that face he usually wore when he was trying to seem more human than usual. He was a frighteningly good actor when he tried to be. Wilkes looked as though he had swallowed a lemon and seemed disinclined to answer at all but in order to keep up the friendly act he had to reply with something.

"Well yes, but the military decided I'd done an exemplary job and knew of my desire to pursue higher education so they let me go. If that is all gentlemen, as much as I'd love to continue this social visit I'm a very busy man and I've got far too much work to be done." He said, his face tight with discomfort. Sherlock smiled winningly and stuck out his hand.

"Thank you for your time Sebastian." He said, his voice sickeningly sweet and, to an untrained ear, sincere. Sebastian smiled and waved a hand dismissively and then they were off, John struggling to keep up with that whipping black coat. Struggling down the stairs after his flatmate John opened his mouth to inquire about the hidden clues and subtext that he knew he had missed but quickly snapped it shut at the look on Sherlock's face. he was processing and speaking now would only impede the process. In the cab then, that's when he would let John in on the new data.

John studied his partner's face, those ever changing eyes hardly visible under tightly drawn eyebrows, the tiny crows feet that appeared as he narrowed his eyes, the pursed lips. John thrust his hands into his pockets, not wanting to deal with the slight tremble that he could feel starting in his hand. Sherlock was, from an objective standpoint, very interesting looking. He stood out among a crowd, his face slightly harsh, all straight lines and masculine angles offset by feminine eyes and soft lips. It gave him a rather other-worldly countenance that was just different from most people and altogether unique. John felt a bit less guilty for his attraction to the man as he realized that most people would be attracted. It was odd not to be fascinated by him but that did not mean that he had to act on the feelings.

John became all the more resolved to keep his secret and his roaming gaze to himself. He started as he realized that Sherlock had stopped moving and was hailing a cab for them. When the cab rolled to a halt at the curb he clambered in beside the object of his inspection, ready for the steady stream of deductions that was about to pour forth. Sherlock gave him a look and rattled off an unfamiliar address.

"We need to go to the storage units by the dock John." He remarked.

"Um, Why's that exactly?" John asked, knowing a hook when he saw one. Sherlock wanted to show off but needed the invitation.

"He gave us everything we need to tie him to the murders but it's still all circumstantial. He has been careful not to do any of the work himself but has plenty of people working under him. When he checked his phone I noticed several numbers that have not been entered into the phone's memory but have been called frequently, thus people he does not want to be linked to but must be out of necessity. He was unsurprisingly disinclined to answer my questions right out but his body language gave away more than enough. Wilkes was dishonorably discharged, judging from the way he tensed when I mentioned how he got out of the service, the backs of his hands carry the marks of high voltage electrocution and the tremor in his muscles denotes exposure as well. The victim was killed by this same method. This tells me that Wilkes has designed a weapon not unlike a taser but capable of delivering a more powerful punch. In order to devise such a weapon he needed a space to work where he would be uninterrupted. He had a new key on his keyring, small and rounded, so a padlock then which points toward a storage unit. The key was red and the only storage facilities in London that hand out red keys are this one here by the dock and one on the other side of town. He had bits of sand clinging to his shoe ruling out the one across town. Now we just have to find the correct unit, not difficult as the key was numbered, and break in." He concluded looking quite happy with himself.

"Brilliant." John muttered in honest wonder. The man was frighteningly attentive and John silently thanked whatever force made Sherlock want to catch the bad guys and not become one of them.

"So you've said." Sherlock replied quietly, despite the fact that he was positively beaming at this point. Sherlock cataloged the fact that John's hand was still deep in his pocket, telling him that it was probably trembling as he spoke.

Sherlock leapt from the cab, leaving John scrambling to ask that the cabbie wait for them and that they were only going to be a few minutes before dashing after his long-legged friend. He nearly ran directly into Sherlock's back as he skidded to a halt before, presumably, the correct container. There was a sliver of light showing beneath the door and the sounds of male voices.

Sherlock shot him an irritated glance before leaning an ear up to the metal door and closing his eyes, trying to hear what was going on. After only a few moments the distinct sound of crackling electricity was heard and Sherlock's bright eyes popped open. Before John knew what was going on he was being shuffled back to the cab by a breathless Sherlock who was positively ecstatic and grinning ear to ear.

"John phone Lestrade, we have our evidence." He said before directing the cabbie to Scotland Yard.

_Thanks for waiting guys, I hope you're enjoying the mystery. Review with theories, solutions, suggestions, or critiques, I just like to know I'm not writing to ghosts!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Sherlock stood glaring at the detective inspector with crossed arms and a sneer plastered over his fine features.

"They were here! Right inside this container. If you choose not to believe me then you must be more dense than I thought you were Lestrade." Sherlock snapped coldly, his breath clouding out in smoky plumes in the chill night air. The two had been arguing for the better part of an hour, or Lestrade had degenerated to shouting quickly after the late night call assuring him of rock hard evidence had pulled him from his bed and the warehouse had turned out to be empty.

A few moments ago Lestrade had pulled up in a sleek black car, not his usual cruiser, looking grumpier than usual and was soon followed by a couple of uniformed officers in their own cars.

"I believe you Sherlock but I can't see any way that they might have escaped. You said you waited here until I arrived right? You'd have seen them leave. Tell me what you need me to do and I'll do it but the way I see it, there is nothing here." Lestrade grumbled unhappily. The Detective Inspector ruffled his hair and looked a bit sheepish as he called off his team.

Sherlock began picking about the warehouse gingerly until his eyes lighted on something he apparently thought was significant before looking up at the waiting inspector.

Sherlock scoffed unhappily and looked at Lestrade with open disgust. "Fine, after all of the years of good work I've given you, the gift wrapped murderers and promotions you still doubt me. If you insist on this folly I'll simply be forced to show you the only thing that you thick headed imbeciles can understand, visual evidence." The genius snarled, turning on his heel and walking purposefully over toward a stack of boxes in the corner. He proceeded to heft his weight against them until every single one toppled over and he was left kicking the debris from the floor.

Lestrade and all of his men paused to observe the "freak's" meltdown, temper-tantrum, psychotic break or whatever they had assumed this was as John observed Sherlock, carefully out of the reach of the flying bits of wood.

When the detective finally stopped flailing about he yanked open a near invisible door imbedded in the floor with a triumphant and perhaps slightly gloating expression. Lestrade was wearing an expression that John had only seen him use concerning Sherlock. It was a mix of intense irritation and awe. John repressed a chuckle and half jogged over to peek down the hole in the ground.

Sherlock looked suspicious for a moment and seemed to have an epiphany. "John, if they escaped down this hatch then how did the boxes get on top of it?" He asked happily.

"Oh lord, there is still one here." John said, voice slightly exasperated. Sherlock's eyes glittered excitedly.

"Exactly." He said smiling, eyes peeled for movement. After a moment of silence a hooded figure dashed from behind some scrap metal near the entrance of the container and booked it for the door. Lestrade leapt into action and tackled the man to the ground, struggling to restrain him.

Sherlock fairly strutted over to the two men on the ground and looked down his nose at them. "What have we here?"He tutted. The man grunted angrily and tried to wriggle out from under the detective inspector.

Lestrade huffed at the uniformed officers who were previously standing about spectacularly uselessly and they seemed shocked into motion, hefting the man to his feet and slapping cuffs on him. As the officers hauled the suspect off to the back of a police cruiser Lestrade approached them, brushing the dust from his trousers.

"I expect you'll want to interrogate him too?" He asked, clearly perturbed. Sherlock smirked.

"In the morning, it'll be more effective if we give him time to think on the consequences of his actions." The lanky man replied. "Now John, let's have a look down that tunnel." He said, guiding John with a hand on the small of his back to the opening. The smaller man ignored the extraordinarily intimate action as well as the shiver that chased down his spine at the contact of Sherlock's long fingered hand burning through his two layers of clothing. So focused was he on the sensation that he missed Sherlock's small smirk and the fact that he had nearly walked directly into the tunnel he was supposed to be investigating.

As John came to his senses Sherlock dropped gracefully down the hole, scurrying down the ladder and into the pitch darkness. John felt his heart jump into his throat and followed quickly, hoping to stop the detective from doing something stupid in his pursuit of the fleeing criminals who were probably long gone by now anyhow.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness around him John located Sherlock who was examining some footprints in what he hoped was mud.

"John the footprints, despite being almost an hour old are sloppy. Possibly nerve damage impeding an efficient getaway." He rambled, standing and snapping his pocket magnifier closed and pocketing it, to grab John's hand and lead him away from those footprints and back to the ladder.

"Sherlock, is that really necessary?" John asked, glad for the darkness because he was certain that he must be flushed from the contact. Sherlock looked at him with a furrowed brow.

"John it's dark and I have the torch. How did you intend to get back to the exit?" He asked quizzically. John could feel the flush deepen and cleared his throat to cover his embarrassment.

"Right then." He muttered, stepping back to avoid getting hit in the face with that swishing coat as his partner climbed the rickety ladder to the surface where Lestrade's men were still milling about with their usual vacant expressions.

As John emerged from the hole himself Sherlock was already well on his way to the door, phone glued to his ear and snapping out directions quickly. The shorter man employed the half-jog which had served him well in keeping up with his long legged friend thus far and caught up with the whipping coat after only a moment. With a backwards glance at a puzzled Lestrade, they were out the large sliding door of the warehouse and back in the whipping coastal winds of the port.

"So what now Sherlock? Should we bring in Wilkes for questioning?" John asked, more to prod Sherlock into giving him the plan than to actually suggest a course of action which, knowing the eccentric man as he did, would most likely be disregarded.

"No John, for now we will go home, until the man we have in custody talks we are at a bit of a stand still." Sherlock was hailing another cab, the first having apparently taken off when they showed no sign of returning. The relative silence of the cab was a blessing for John who had been slowly falling from the rush of adrenaline and was gradually becoming more and more sleepy. The stress of the day was taking its toll.

The ride home was quiet, consisting mostly of Sherlock tapping quickly on his phone, presumably texting Lestrade to keep him updated concerning the status of their most concrete link to the crime scene. As the car pulled up to the welcoming steps of 221B Sherlock jumped from the car and walked around to open the door for John, holding his hand out to help his partner from the car. The look on John's face was priceless, it appeared as though he couldn't decide whether the hand hovering in front of his face was poisonous or was actually trying to lift him out of the vehicle. Given Sherlock's nature it could be either.

The doctor decided to throw caution to the wind and grasped the limb firmly, ignoring the heat rising in his face as Sherlock lifted him from the car and placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

John tried telling himself that the smirk crawling across Sherlock's face was not in response to John's pink cheeks and trembling hand but he had a sneaking suspicion that he was caught. This realization only compounded the weariness in his limbs as he shuffled around the lanky form between him and the door.

Sherlock looked after him for a moment before leaning into the window to settle up with the cabbie. John was still slightly in awe of the fact that Sherlock, king of running out on the bill, was paying for the ride as he shuffled up the steps and made himself a cup of tea.

The weary doctor dropped into a chair and nursed his hastily made cuppa, wondering what was taking the detective so very long.

There were footsteps on the stairs.

"Sherlock, I'd like to watch a film and perhaps nod off." He shouted at the footsteps until he realized that these steps were heavy and loud and not at all like Sherlock's usual light-footed gait during a case. John dropped the mug and felt for his gun which of course was locked in his dresser drawer, damn concealed weapons laws. As four men wearing black ski masks scrambled into the room, John lunged for the knife block, successfully grabbing the butcher knife and putting up his fists.

He was surrounded, outnumbered, and smaller than every single one of these men but his only thoughts were for Sherlock. The men grabbed for him and John managed to put down two of them, the first via his femoral artery, for some reason they never expect him to go for the groin, and the second with a thrust in the axillary artery, his medical knowledge giving him the edge to compensate for his stature. Puncturing the axillary artery in the arm pit was not pleasant, it drenched his shoulder in blood as he shoved his weight behind the knife in an upward heave.

John was caught around the waist in a tackle and wrenched to the side, away from the two rapidly dying men. The soldier tried to get a grip on the man's face to break his neck but the blood slicked his hands and he scrabbled for purchase. The John finally resorted to punching with his full strength at the man's back and received a decent right hook to the jaw which made him see stars for a moment and gave his attackers just enough time to grab his hands and feet. He was caught. One of the men used Sherlock's skull to deliver a blow to John's head that made his vision fade to black.

When he came to he realized that he was in a car, judging by the bumping sway of the vehicle. He touched the left row of molars with his tongue, he winced, it hurt but nothing loose or broken. John kept his eyes closed, trying not to itch at the drying blood on his left shoulder and arm. If there was a point where he could gain the upper hand through surprise he wanted to take it.

There was an uncomfortable grunt from the seat next to him and he couldn't help but open his eyes and glance at Sherlock. The man seemed to be fine apart from a bump on the head. They were both bound with their hands behind them and their feet zip tied together.

"John there were four of them, why did you fight?" Sherlock admonished as he took stock of John's injuries. Nothing too serious, the blood was obviously not his own but his face was beginning to swell from the hit he had taken. John grinned lopsidedly, shrugging at Sherlock's assessment of the situation. The driver was pointedly ignoring them.

"What was I supposed to do? Just let them take me willingly?" John asked, prodding the fact that Sherlock had apparently done exactly that.

"It might have ended more favorably for you if you had." Sherlock huffed.

"Yes, well not all of us are more concerned with mussing our clothes than being kidnapped." John snapped, his head throbbing from the impact.

"Shut up you." The driver grunted, pulling a pistol and waving it around with one hand, the other on the wheel.

"Right." John muttered, rolling his eyes and wiggling about trying to loosen his restraints. Unfortunately for the two the restraints were tight and well secured. John was feeling the first tendrils of panic drifting through him.

"Sherlock..." He said, his voice nervous.

"Hush John, I'm listening." Sherlock replied, his eyes closed, and his head tilted back resting against the head rest. John obeyed uneasily, wiggling his fingers and toes which were starting to lose feeling due to the lack of circulation.

Hoping that Sherlock had a plan had worked for John for the past few months and he wasn't about to start doubting his companion's abilities now. If the man said he needed quiet to save their asses, who was he to disagree?

The driver seemed to settle down once they had stopped talking and was concentrating on navigating in the complete darkness with no headlights on. John was thankful, he was worried about that gun and anything that placated the man wielding it at the moment seemed like a blessing.

With little preamble the car jerked to a halt and the man in the front stayed seated until a group of three or so men came out and escorted them into a dingy little shack. If escorted means dragged, Sherlock motionless and impassive, and John kicking and shouting and generally putting up a great hassle. These antics earned him a pistol whipping to go with his already swollen and harassed jaw. His whole face ached in throbbing pulses.

Yep, if that tooth wasn't loose before it certainly is now. The doctor grimaced at the taste of blood and continued to struggle until he was unceremoniously tossed onto the dirt floor of the basement of this little shack. He let out an oomph as the breath was knocked out of him due to Sherlock's bony body colliding with his as he was tossed down behind the good doctor and landed on top of him.

The sound of the hatch closing was a little disconcerting and John had a feeling that he would remember that sound. Sherlock's silence was becoming a bit much. He had not bothered to wriggle himself upright and instead was sprawled on the dirt as though it was his couch back at Baker St. Those long fingered hands were perched just under his nose as he, hopefully, pondered how to get them the hell out of this predicament.

There was a polite cough from the corner of the room and a pair of expensive looking leather shoes stepped neatly into view. John's eyes followed these shoes up the smart trousers and dapper waistcoat with dread, all the way to the smirking face of none other than Sebastian Wilkes who seemed supremely gleeful at the state of a certain ex-military doctor.

Sherlock seemed to tune in and raised an eyebrow at the banker's appearance, showing nothing more than mild interest. "Sebastian, nice to see you." He intoned sarcastically.

"Oh come now Sherlock, let's drop the charade. Did you really think that I'd just ignore you're little interrogation at my office? Or you so rudely bursting in on my men at the warehouse? Someone's been a bad boy, I'll have to teach you a lesson, just like I used to. Do you remember that?" He asked smugly, oddly enough, not watching Sherlock's reaction to his words but John's.

Sherlock's eyes snapped to his blogger. He didn't have enough evidence to make the conclusion yet. Sherlock dreaded the awareness that would light behind John's eyes when he finally got around to the truth.

"Well, I'll have to admit that you've always been a terrible disciplinarian." Sherlock muttered, forcibly relaxing his jaw to keep from grinding his teeth together. Sebastian laughed, a casual easy laugh with his hands in his pockets as though he hadn't a care in the world.

"Oh Sherlock, it hardly took any effort. How about we catch your little friend up shall we? It's really not fair to be playing with only half a hand. But I suppose that's really why you keep him around isn't it? He's always far enough behind not to question you, he just follows along like a good little pet. Bit like you were isn't he." Sebastian crowed delightedly. Sherlock huffed unhappily.

"Really Sebastian, let's cease with the megalomaniac ranting and just get to the point." He snapped, turning his head and assuming the brooding position. Sebastian frowned and stepped closer, losing the taunting smirk and beginning to look more sinister.

"Oh yes let's. How about we tell little John here about the younger Sherlock, all wide eyed and naïve. It was easy really John, you see we were assigned as roommates. All I had to do was look at him twice he was so starved for companionship. The other students hated him, thought him odd and off putting what with that … thing he does. I was there when he needed guidance. I taught him obedience and gave his life structure." Wilkes was really on a roll now, pacing to and fro, gesticulating wildly, it even seemed as though he remembered the times fondly.

Sherlock glared but didn't open his mouth to refute the claims, the muscle in his jaw jumping under the stress it was currently receiving. John's brows knit together in a mixture of confusion and worry. This was not looking good, clearly Wilkes had gone round the bend and wasn't planning on making a return trip any time soon.

John cast his eyes about for any sign of something to help him escape but the room was barren, absolutely empty from what he could see. Nothing but dirt floor and concrete walls. His gaze slid to Sherlock who, to the naked eye seemed to be pouting in his usual manner. Well, no choice then, best just let him talk until he runs out of steam and hope that Ms. Hudson realized that they hadn't come home which, given how frequently they didn't come home, was a bit of a stretch.

Sherlock's mind was racing a mile a minute, looking for an opening to rush the psychopath as he slowly cut his bonds behind his back. He analyzed the situation which was quickly turning bad.

"Oh yes, John. I had my fair bit of fun with our dear Sherlock. Would it surprise you to know that he begged?" Wilkes crowed proudly. Sherlock didn't respond, having gone quite still.

"Oh is that what all this is about? You're some jilted lover? I don't even share Sherlock's idea of boring and yet this seems a bit inane." John responded, rolling his eyes for effect. Inside he was worried for Sherlock and seething with anger at this piece of garbage who presumed to speak about his... flatmate like that but Wilkes had been steadily advancing on the lanky man with a predatory air about him that was worrisome, he needed to draw the man's attention away from Sherlock.

It worked. Those sharp blue eyes focused on John and he switched directions. Sherlock stiffened. He knew what John was trying to do and it was a bad plan. John would get himself killed if Sherlock didn't figure something out soon. He sawed quicker. No way to surprise Wilkes as both of them were easily within his range of sight at all times. The man had been a boxer at uni so it'd be best to go for the legs when he made a move. Boxers had weak knees and typically bad joints, could provide an advantage especially if the way he ever so slightly favored his left side. The ropes held.

"I see you think you know him? Tell me have you seen him cry? Whimper? Has he told you he needs you?" He asked angrily, agitated now that his stories seemed to elicit so small a response from the sturdy little man. He was face to face with John now, so close that John could smell the coffee he hand drunk before this little meeting.

John gave a little smirk and spat down the man's expensive tie. Sherlock winced, Sebastian's vanity knew no bounds, there was little more offensive to him than soiling his clothing. "You're angry because you're garbage and Sherlock realized as much." He whispered. Apparently these actions were not the best idea because Wilkes turned bright red and before John could move, the man stomped hard on the arch of John's foot.

Breaking a bone is an odd experience for a doctor. He heard the crunch first and was instantly certain that the first and second metatarsals were shattered, then the pain hit him like a punch in the gut and the air left his lungs in one great whoosh. He managed to keep from shouting, reminding himself that getting shot was certainly worse and he had managed that. He was vaguely aware of Wilkes shouting about something or another and tried desperately to tune back in. The man was looking at Sherlock again.

"You need me still. You may not know it right now but you do!" He was shouting. John regained control of his voice, hoarse with pain though it may be.

"Sounds to me as though you are the one who needs him." He spat. This time the blow came as a surprise. He watched in slow motion as the man reached for a metal pipe in the shadows he had come from in the first place and brought it down hard on John's tibia. The pain was no better. It hurt like fire burning up his shin. He was dazed for a few moments longer though and Sherlock's voice brought him out of it like a bucket of cold water.

"John, stop it." He said, his voice tense and urgent. He couldn't keep quiet with John being tortured like this, right in front of him. It made him feel as though there were worms in his stomach wiggling around and causing him to want to vomit. All he needed was to buy time for the tiny penknife to work through the ropes. They were so close. The ropes held

Wilkes was delighted with the perceived weakness and turned to kick John in the ribs, in the aching shoulder, he even caught a boot to the mouth which popped out one of his molars and split his lip. He was sure he looked manic as he faced Wilkes when the beating was through and the out of shape man was heaving for breath as though he couldn't draw it quickly enough.

John forced himself to laugh at this man who had degraded the most important person in his life. He spat at him with renewed vigor, the excised tooth plinking off of those fancy trousers with a morbidly amusing bounce.

"You kick like a baby with polio." He slurred out around the shredded lip and missing tooth. His whole body ached but he was happy with himself. Sherlock was untouched. He watched as Wilkes' face turned near purple it was so red with anger and he spun on his heel to grab a rod about as long as a walking stick with two metal prongs on the end from the same corner which he had stashed the metal pipe.

Uh oh, that was their murder weapon from the man this morning. This morning seemed so far away, was it really just this morning that he was sure Sherlock was teasing him about his shaking hand. Wow. He made eye contact with Sherlock, seeking out those bright eyes in the darkness and he smiled despite the worried expression around them. John started struggling, despite the fact that he knew exactly how useless it was at this point.

Sherlock hacked at the ropes with as much effort as his cramping hand could manage. It made his eyes sting to watch John struggle weakly against the impending death. His chest felt as though it was in a vice. Breath refused to come. The ropes held

John kicked at the man's legs and got stuck in the back of his calf by the prongs. It was the most intense pain he had ever felt. Worse than being shot. Every single nerve ending was a concentrated agony. It felt like molten hot needles being shoved into his whole body. The roots of his hair hurt. He didn't know that was possible. And then it was over. He lay panting, face in a puddle of cooling blood and drool, eyes rolling lazily around in his head as he tried to get control of them again. Despite the weak, trembling limbs and the aftershocks rolling through his nervous system he kicked out at the man tiredly.

John was alive. At least the man was alive. That was good. But he didn't seem as though he could go another round with that electric stick. Oh god he was doing it again. This is the worst kind of pain. Is this sentiment? The ropes held

There was a chuckle and John remembered thinking that he hoped it wasn't the last sound he ever heard. Wouldn't that be a shame. He was rolled over by a foot which proceeded to step on his back and then the pain returned. This time originating from the back of his neck where he vaguely guessed the dreaded machine was anchored. He didn't remember if he screamed or not, he was trying to ensure that his chattering teeth didn't bite off his tongue and kill him regardless of the electricity. It was useless. He couldn't control anything. He was distantly aware of the smell of piss and wondered if he had pissed himself. Probably. Electricity could do that.

Not remembering why amid the haze of pain he realized that he should grab Wilkes. It seemed like a good idea. He inched his hand, which was disinclined to respond under current circumstances, to touch the man's bare ankle. Skin on skin. It was slow going and John was lucky that the man's hubris commanded him and not his logical mind. Just a few more centimeters. The limb kept jerking with the current running through his muscles.

The hand spasmed and caught Wilkes' ankle. Nearly immediately the pressure let up and a few moments later the electricity was gone too. This was difficult. Staying awake hurt. John let his body relax and for a moment didn't care about the fluids he was sure covered him. Sherlock was safe. John had done his part. Now it was up to the brilliant man in the corner to finish it up.

The ropes gave.

Sherlock leapt to his feet, heart in his throat at the sight of his partner laying motionless on the floor. He dropped the penknife. His hands free, he ripped at the bindings on his feet and nearly crawled over to John. He looked like death with his blue eyes rolling freely and the various liquids covering him and fouling the room.

He pressed two fingers firmly under the small man's chin and could have fallen over with relief at the weak and irregular pulse he found. With shaking hands he dug through Sebastian's pockets and found the cell phone. He punched in the numbers and after three or four tries his fingers steadied enough to get Lestrade on the line.

"I need help, backup, whatever you people call it. We need an ambulance, John is severely injured and I believe Sebastian Wilkes is dead. We are at a cabin in the woods somewhere off the shore. Trace the call if you must. Quickly." He said tersely, growing more worried every second. John's eyes stopped rolling and he seemed to have, mercifully, passed out.

Sherlock busied himself with untying John and using the ropes to tie up Sebastian. He wanted to leave the house but he wasn't sure if the men who had taken them were still guarding the premises. There was a sour feeling gnawing at his gut despite the danger having passed and he couldn't help but link it to John's status as severely injured. But why? Why did the very thought of continuing without his blogger make him as panicky as if the world would end. He refused to think about it at the moment and sat at John's side, turning him so that if he threw up he wouldn't drown and his face wasn't stuck in the puddle of blood and saliva underneath him.

This just so happened to put John's head on Sherlock's knees as the detective stroked the graying blonde hair more for his own comfort than the unconscious man in his lap.

When DI Lestrade arrived nearly an hour later they found Sherlock bent double, his arms cradling John's neck and torso bent over the man's head. He wasn't crying but it was as close as Greg remembered ever having seen him.

It took most of his own constitution to keep from cringing in disgust and distaste at the state of them both. Foul smelling and disgusting but together and alive. Mostly.

They guided the struggling and shouting Wilkes up the stairs and into the back of a police car, much to Sherlock's chagrin. Then John was carried up on a stretcher with Sherlock fluttering about critiquing the paramedics on their technique and suggesting stronger drugs than were strictly necessary.

Greg smirked sometimes that great git missed the most obvious things. Now was not an appropriate time for that though, as Sherlock was fighting loudly with the paramedics who were trying to simultaneously wrap a shock blanket around him and spirit John away without Sherlock.

Lestrade walked over to the ambulance and placed a hand on the purple shirted shoulder belonging to the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock turned to face him with eyes wider than they should have been and a weariness etched into his face that was only to be expected with such an experience.

He seemed to take comfort in Greg's presence though and appreciated him all the more when he told the medics to let him ride with. Lestrade watched the man shrug off the blanket and take John's hand as he slithered into the ambulance.

Greg followed the ambulance in Mycroft's "pick me up" car, one of many sleek black sedans he owned but nobody needed to know that just yet. At the hospital in the waiting room Sherlock was a wreck, pacing quickly and glowering one minute and sitting despondently the next. The hospital staff learned to stop offering him things as soon as he made the first girl cry. Apparently pointing out self esteem issues that are based in truth is inappropriate in public. Who knew.

At the moment Sherlock was settled in for a good long stretch of silence and was holding fistfuls of his own hair, trying to will the doctors to go faster.

A familiar man walked up to the pair and Lestrade leapt from his napping position only to be overrun by Sherlock's enthusiasm.

"Is he alright?" He snapped quickly, despite knowing the answer from the speed of the man's walk and the lack of urgency in his face.

"Yes but he is heavily medicated. Do not upset him, he's seen quite a bit of trauma tonight." The doctor said patiently, leading them to John's room and closing the door after him.

Sherlock sat down in the chair near the head of the bed and smiled at John's obvious confusion. His leg was bound in a thick cast and he was laying on his side, careful of the spiderweb marks and puncture wounds left behind by the machine. They were lines that feathered out from the point of contact, almost beautiful if you didn't know they were most likely signs of nerve damage.

'I wonder what they gave him.' Sherlock thought curiously, reaching for John's IV drip. A lethargic hand stopped him and he locked eyes with John.

"Morphine." John croaked, voice thick from the drugs. Sherlock's eyebrows shot to his hairline and he dropped his hand back to his lap as though it were made of lead. He most certainly hadn't asked out loud.

How about that guys? I know it's not anything like what I said I might do before but I felt this kinda went with the flow a bit better. I think I'm going to keep my direction a bit secret for now but I'll tell you that Moriarty will be involved.


End file.
